


Technical Difficulties

by tiredRobin



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), But I promise both parties are consenting, But it's not that sexy, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) is Bad at Feelings, Consensual Sex, Consent Issues, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I'M TAGGING THIS JUST IN CASE BECAUSE I'M NOT SURE HOW ELSE TO TAG IT, I'm tagging all of the everything because I am not sure how to tag it, Kinda, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated M Because You Don't See Any Humanoid Genitals Also They're Robots And It's Complicated, Rating May Change, Robot Feels, Robot Sex, Wire Play, With A Twist, attempt at fluff at least, ken doll Connor, these tags are a bit of a mess i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredRobin/pseuds/tiredRobin
Summary: Being new to the world and its possibilities isn't, in and of itself, new to many androids; trying new things, however, is a different story. Connor and Markus are taking a step forward in their relationship, and neither expect what comes of it.[Please read the author's note at the beginning. It contains clarifications on specific, possibly concerning tags. Thank you!]





	Technical Difficulties

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to clarify about the "Dubious Consent" and "Consent Issues" tags. Both Markus and Connor are fully consenting towards having sex; however, I want to make note that although Connor says yes several times and although Markus checks on him several times, android psychology is (from my perspective!) complicated and not at all black or white. Connor has significantly less life experience than Markus, and has had less time to come to understand more deeply the intricacies of his body, personal relationships, and sexual situations (from my own personal experience, knowledge of sex does not mean you are ready to have sex!). Additionally, Connor does not enjoy the experience due to complications related to being a prototype. He is physically capable of stopping them from continuing to have sex but mentally struggles at reconciling that, and therefore does not act on it. They discuss the issues immediately after in a healthy way.
> 
> TLDR: Connor is still fairly new to the world and his body; that, including issues stemming from being a prototype, lead to an unenjoyable sexual experience. Markus and Connor discuss it afterwards in a healthy manner.
> 
> (One final note: I understand that autistic characters are often infantilized and given little sexual agency in most works. When I wrote this, that wasn't what I was aiming for at all, and I hope that that's not how it comes off. If that is the case, however, and if this offensive in any way, I would really appreciate that you explain to me how it is so that I can learn and avoid any such instance in the future. I'm not autistic and I am still very uncertain in writing autistic characters, so if I'm doing it wrong it's important to me that I know! Thank you for being patient with me, and I apologize for any mistakes.)
> 
> If you can think of additional tags, please inform me! If you think I should up the rating and can provide a solid reason why, please let me know! Thank you.

“Wait,” Connor says, and Markus’s hands stop abruptly in their exploration. “I don’t—” It’s hard to say it, somehow. It’s never come up before. It’s never had _reason_ to come up before. Connor swallows, hesitates, and Markus is ever patient. Uncertainty still has him uncharacteristically stumbling over what he needs to say. “I don’t have genitals. They didn’t—I’m a prototype, I was made for investigations, they didn’t—”

Markus’s calming smile shushes him. His hand strokes the false meat of Connor’s waist. “That’s okay,” he says, and Connor believes him. “There are… other ways.” His smile turns mischievous. It sends a ripple of… _something_ through Connor. Lust, perhaps, or anticipation.

Markus’s hand is careful, questing and questioning, as he shifts his fingers to Connor’s belt. Connor nods, a bit stiff and jerky, and with quick, precise movements Markus undoes it and pops the button of his pants, the zipper soon following. He keeps his eyes on Connor’s face the whole time and Connor knows it’s to watch him for any signs of discomfort, and he is grateful. 

Those skillful fingers slip into his pants and tug at his underwear—another question, another nod of consent given—and shortly thereafter Markus is tugging them both down and out of the way. Only then does his eyes flicker to Connor’s crotch, and Connor feels something in him twist discomfitingly. As if sensing it, Markus stops again. “Are you okay?” he asks, low and careful. 

Connor nods.

Markus’s answering smile is small and patient. “I’d like to hear you say so.”

It feels hard to get the words from his throat, like there is a slowly-tightening vice around his lungs preventing him from speaking, but Connor manages to keep his voice steady. “I’m okay.”

He is rewarded with a grin, now—and he wonders, time and again, how Markus can smile so easily, how it seems to come to him so naturally—and Markus takes it as an invitation to slide his other hand between Connor’s legs, pressing his fingers to the dips of Connor’s inner thighs where Connor knows there are release mechanisms for the protective crotch plate. 

“There are sensors,” Markus tells him, “like raw nerves, out in the open. Similar to the clitoris but smaller; there’s three that connect to the genital plate if it’s attached, and I can get to them if I remove this.” He watches Connor steadily but Markus’s gaze does not feel like a weight. The explanation is helpful; Markus knows, by now, how much Connor leans on facts and information as a way to navigate his emotions. “They might be overwhelmed by direct stimulation but I can work around that. I can make you feel good this way. Is that all right?”

Connor almost says _no, it isn’t._ He almost says _I want to stop._ He almost asks _can we focus on you, for now?_ But the words don’t come, and some part of him trembles with curiosity, and some part of him shivers with fear. It takes a moment—milliseconds, nearly a hundred—to place that he is _excited,_ excited and _scared,_ and so, so uncertain, and he doesn’t want to say no. He wants to feel whatever it is that makes Markus look at him like this, his core temperature elevated, a simulated and yet all-too-real flush blanketing his dark skin. 

Connor swallows again. “It’s all right,” he says, strained, in a half echo of Markus’s question, and he does not flinch when Markus leans forward to press a gentle kiss to a spot just under his eye. 

“Let me know if you want to stop,” he murmurs back. Connor nods—is grateful that Markus doesn’t make him verbalize his consent again—and Markus applies a specific pressure that has the skin receding from Connor’s crotch, revealing the white beneath. His own skin around his hands pulls away and there is a _click_ and the crotch cover releases, and Markus is so careful as he gently removes it and sets it aside. Giving Connor another kiss under his other eye, he shimmies down a bit to get a better view.

Connor feels, a bit, like he might be drowning.

Markus’s hands hover just above the exposed inners. “Are you okay?” Again, waiting, forever patient. His gaze flickers to Connor’s LED—no doubt it holds at a steady yellow. 

“Yes,” Connor says, and he can’t tell if it’s a lie. 

“Okay.” Another smile, this time reassuring. Connor wonders how people can convey so much with the same expression. “I’m going to brush around one of the sensors now. Let me know if it’s too much or if you want to stop.” 

“Okay.”

Markus’s finger—just one—dips into the alcove, and Connor finds that he is holding his breath, and then it brushes against _something_ in him and—

The sensation that runs through Connor’s body is not, he concludes near immediately, pleasure. It is nearly warm but somehow sterile; it is a zing somewhat similar to what he felt when he accomplished something for Amanda. It is his programming. The sensor registers the contact and informs his body of it and he can _feel_ the automatic, coded response almost force him to shift his hips into the pressure as though seeking it again, as though it is enjoyable. 

But it feels like nothing. It is pressure and it is an almost-warmth that has nothing to do with temperature, a false simulation, an _alert_ that is telling his throat to make a weak little noise. It slips out involuntarily, and Markus’s eyes brighten like that is the response he was seeking, and Connor understands. 

He is a machine. He is a negotiator. He is designed to ask questions and gather information. He may not have all the “standard” equipment but that comes with being a prototype, and he draws the logical, irrefutable conclusion that allowing him to feel pleasure would be considered a distraction. Should he ever need to bed someone for information, it only makes sense that he have coded reactions and nothing else, which would allow him to maintain focus and control of the situation. 

All this passes through his head in a heartbeat. Markus presses closer to the sensor and Connor’s hips thrust upward automatically, a programmed response. 

An emotion like nothing Connor has felt before rises thick and heavy and curdling from his abdomen. It wraps around his lungs, rises like a slimy weight into his throat. He feels, irrationally, like he is about to vomit, despite having nothing to expel. 

“Does it feel good?” Markus asks, and Connor opens his mouth to say _it doesn’t, it doesn’t, please stop_ but there is a look to Markus’s eye that says he is enjoying this immensely, and the flush of his skin (false that it is) is much brighter than before, and Connor cannot. He can’t destroy this for Markus, so eager, so pleased. He can’t ruin this. 

So he tips his head back and moans and Markus makes a little sound himself, satisfied, and continues with his ministrations, and as his fingers grow bolder Connor’s body moves more. His hips buck up—held down by Markus’s free hand—and his legs twitch and his fingers grasp into the bedsheets and it is all programmed, loops of code that tell him what to do, and he is deviant, he could shut it down, but when he looks to Markus he _can’t._ Because there is a brightness in Markus, and Connor cannot bring himself to snuff it out with disappointment. 

Markus brings him to a faked completion like this—sprawled out between Connor’s clenching legs, watching the arch of his back, holding back the thrusts of his hips. The program alerts him of the orgasm and Connor responds appropriately. He knows that he looks like he is tipping over the edge; he knows he looks overwhelmed and lost in on himself. He knows Markus is enjoying this, from the sound he makes in turn. 

Connor knows—is still aware, too aware when he should be focused on the sensations—that Markus had reached his own completion moments before Connor’s program did.

His body finally goes lax, the program releasing him from its grasp. The remnants of it has his thighs twitching into the barely-there brush of Markus’s finger near one of the sensors. 

“Connor,” Markus murmurs in appreciative awe. 

Connor feels ill. He doesn’t respond. 

Markus doesn’t pick up on the weight of the silence, certainly basking in his own afterglow. He seems to deliberate for half a moment. “Do you want the cover—?”

Connor nods, and it is a struggle to keep the eagerness out of the motion. His legs spread wider at Markus’s gentle urging and he feels the mild pressure of the crotch plate clicking back in place, and he is aware of his skin phasing back over the smooth expanse. With that done Markus begins to slide himself back up Connor’s body and Connor realizes with sudden alarm that there is no doubt Markus won’t see a red LED, and there is no other solution but to turn his head into the pillows to hide it.

He thinks he should try to look overwhelmed. The most he can manage is closing his eyes. He hopes it’s enough. 

Markus curls carefully against Connor’s left and presses his lips along the edge of Connor’s jaw, once, twice. An arm wraps around his abdomen. “Did it feel good?” Markus murmurs, and there is a lilt to his voice like he knows it did. 

Connor’s lips part to say _yes_ and, again, his voice doesn’t come. He can’t force it out. His throat works, swallows, and he can’t force it out. He keeps his eyes closed and head turned from Markus and he can’t lie, he can’t _lie,_ and all he did was lie but he can’t manage it now. It is easy to recognize frustration as it wells up in him, for it is an emotion he is well-acquainted with, one that scrapes at his insides like sandpaper and curls his fingers into a fist. 

“… Connor?”

Connor does not respond. He can’t. A lie won’t come and he doesn’t want to say the truth. 

Markus props himself up on an arm and leans over Connor, and Connor doesn’t need open eyes for his peripheral sensors to pick up the clear, budding concern in the furrow of Markus’s brow, the hint of a frown at his lips. “Connor,” he repeats, a hand cupping Connor’s jaw, and Connor does not resist as Markus tilts his head towards him. He doesn’t open his eyes. He can see realization hit Markus anyhow, once his LED comes into view. 

“You—” Markus begins, but he cuts himself off. “Connor,” he murmurs instead. 

The frustration climbs, building behind Connor’s eyes in a burning heat. He knows this, too, and curses himself silently, curses whoever felt that giving tears to machines was ever necessary. He finally does open his eyes and he blinks rapidly to will the tears away, and he hates the twist to Markus’s expression; it nearly looks like he might cry himself. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. Connor shakes his head minutely. “Tell me, please.” His thumb strokes at Connor’s cheek, tentative, hesitating now where it hadn’t hesitated before. “What did I—“

“It wasn’t you,” Connor interrupts. “It—you didn’t do anything wrong. I was. Designed.” He breaks off and his jaw clenches and he can’t meet Markus’s eyes. 

“Take your time,” Markus says, eternally patient even now, even in his confused distress.

A slow exhalation is his response as Connor attempts to center his thoughts. It helps, he’s discovered, to lay things out in a detached way, to distance himself from his emotions and explain the facts. He knows that it sort of bothers Markus when he does this but it’s the best that Connor can manage, especially now. 

“I was designed for negotiations and extracting information,” he starts finally. “I've surmised that the ability to feel pleasure would be seen as distracting, were I to take someone to bed for information. My designers seem to have chosen, instead, to program in specific reactions to… stimulus, similar to that of early androids designated for giving sexual pleasure. It was—it.” He clears his throat unnecessarily. His fingers itch for his coin; he settles for fiddling with the bedsheet. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I imagine it would have felt good, were I capable.”

It is quiet as Markus digests this. His expression, already so sad, seems to crumble, but despite it all there is still a steady solidness to him. His hand hasn’t yet moved from where it cups Connor’s jaw, and Connor doesn’t move away from it. “I don’t blame you,” he reassures, “but I… need to know why you didn’t tell me to stop, if it upset you so much.” His index finger taps twice against Connor’s head, indicating the still-red LED.

Connor turns himself slightly into Markus’s palm. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.” 

That, somehow, seems to be all that Markus can take. His hand suddenly pulls away and Connor is struck with the certainty that Markus is leaving, that Connor had said the wrong thing and upset him, that he had ruined yet another good thing with his mistakes. He starts sitting up, an apology on his lips, hand seeking the other out. He should have asked to stop, he shouldn’t have been so upset, he shouldn’t have let Markus see his LED—

But then Markus is pulling Connor up into his arms, holding him close, and Connor is startled and yet familiar enough with this to fall into it, to wrap an arm over one of Markus’s shoulder and hide his face against his neck. Markus is sturdy against him, bearing the slump of Connor’s frame easily. “This was meant to be for you, Connor,” he murmurs against the skin of Connor’s temple. “I wanted to do this for you. I’m sorry it—that it—that you—“

Connor shakes his head, cutting him off. “You aren’t to blame.”

“And neither are _you,”_ Markus insists immediately. “You didn’t know, and you’re new to this like so many of us are. It isn’t your fault either.” Connor can feel the ghost of a smile against his skin. “I won’t have you blaming yourself for yet another thing you had no control over.”

Connor opens his mouth to protest but then stops himself at the last moment; experience has taught him that Markus will always find a way to counter his arguments. Instead he inhales slowly—beneath him is Markus’s scent, his sensors breaking it down to the individual components that make him up; there’s paint and soap hidden under the smell of the regular cleaning wipes most androids use in lieu of showering, and he thinks he catches the barest whiff of an animal (a cat?)—and he exhales heavily, somehow managing to slump further against Markus. “Okay,” he tries, and the agreement feels a little like a lie. 

“Okay,” Markus replies, soft. “You’re okay.”

“‘M okay.” A little less of a lie.

Markus kisses Connor’s temple. “You are.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beyond everything I wrote in the above note, this exists because I am coping with my own sexual issues and Connor is honestly the perfect candidate for projection. Just look at him. (dabs weakly) ok i can stop being proper because you already read my whole fic
> 
> thank you for reading! lemme know if you catch any mistakes, and i apologize a hundred times over if my tags and explanation were not sufficient enough or if i miswrote an autistic character. you have so much permission to kick my ass. i might be being a little overbearing with all this too but this is! a very delicate subject for me and it's just important for me to convey that. im COPING. im projecting. im living my Life and Everything is Difficult. i hope you have a good week.


End file.
